


The Appraisal

by Naralanis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cissamione, F/F, I promise, Well - Freeform, all's well that ends well, anyway, eventual cissamione, eventually, kind of, mentions of overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-09-26 04:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: Hermione is a real-estate agent, and her newest client proves to be a bit of a challenge she can't quite figure out. Why is Narcissa Malfoy selling the Manor, and, most importantly... what exactly is going on with her?This will have 2-3 installments, I haven't quite decided.





	1. Chapter 1

There were times, usually when she read about Harry’s arrests for the DMLE or Ron’s historic saves for the Chuddley Cannons on _ The Prophet, _that made Hermione think about whether the Wizarding World expected more from the so-called Brightest Witch of her Age. 

Those moments were few and far between. Luckily, the doubt and insecurity that came with them vanished the moment she stepped through the threshold of the mahogany doors of her personal library—an admittedly impressive personal collection, boasting over five thousand volumes Muggle and magical alike, all nestled in the comfort of her historic town home in the centre of Wizarding London. 

She had landed onto the real estate game in the Wizarding World quite by accident—she had merely helped Luna look over some paperwork before the quirky witch committed to purchasing The Leaky Cauldron. It turned out Hermione had a natural talent—both for the paperwork thing and the salesmanship thing. Who would have thought it? 

Before long, she had her own letting agency, with no fewer than forty agents working for her. Granger Realty became a distinguished agency, both wizarding and Muggle. Hermione had set herself apart early on in her career, helping wealthy young witches and wizards purchase swanky apartments in trendy areas of Muggle London, getting everything up to code according to the Statute of Secrecy. Since money was no object to the likes of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, her commissions were... well. Insane. 

Post-war business had been booming, and with the help of rather intelligent investments, Hermione quickly, and rather unexpectedly, became a rather wealthy woman. 

Hence the private library—a dream from childhood, in a bright, vibrant, spacious home. Yes, Hermione Granger was doing quite alright. 

* * *

One peaceful evening found Hermione enjoying an exquisite glass of Merlot from the comfort of a particularly bubbly bath. It all looked a bit cliché, with Edith Piaf crooning on the old radio and the blue bell flames surrounding her bathroom, encased in crystal, but Hermione had to admit she rather liked it. She had just closed an incredibly lucrative deal on an estate on the north of England for Cormac McLaggen and his wife, so the break was well-deserved. 

Hermione had never been one for the finer things in life in her youth, but now in her thirties, she had certainly grown to appreciate some of them. 

She would have liked to continue such appreciation in her blissful relaxation; however, she was rudely interrupted by none other than Dean Thomas unceremoniously barging into her lavish bathroom. 

“Oof,” he exclaimed, eyeing the elaborate set up. “Am I interrupting some down time?” 

She narrowed her eyes, sending him her most withering glare. “Evidently,” she drawled, swirling the wine in her glass in impatience. 

Dean was thoroughly unfazed. “Well, throw on a towel or something, Granger. We’ve got business to discuss,” he quipped, leaving for the parlour with a snicker. 

Hermione sighed, already hearing the tell-tale sounds of Dean rummaging through her liquor cabinet. She summoned her fluffiest robe, throwing it on as a practiced wave of her wand extinguished the blue flames that surrounded her tub. 

“Why in Merlin’s name did I think it a good idea to give you my house key?” she wondered aloud, frowning as she stepped through to the parlour, seeing that Dean had already made himself quite comfortable with her stock of Firewhisky. 

“Because I’m your amazing assistant, and you would flounder without my grace, beauty, and skills.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping into his space and the glass of whisky he had just poured himself. 

“This costs a hundred galleons a bottle,” she scolded him, ignoring his dramatic protestations. “I’m keeping you on a tight leash after you and your husband depleted my stocks the last time you were here for a dinner party.” 

Dean feigned hurt. “Why must you blame me for what Seamus did... I have perfect self-control. I am perfectly innocent.” 

“Hm,” she sipped at her pilfered drink, raising a sarcastic brow. Dean scoffed, waving her off with a smirk. 

“In any case,” he continued, slumping over his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “I wouldn’t worry about your exorbitantly priced whisky for much longer, my friend.” 

“Oh?” Hermione motioned for him to continue as she took a seat herself. 

He nodded excitedly. “You, sweet boss-lady of mine, are about to come into some serious money.” 

“How so?” 

Dean leaned forward, the drumming of his fingers on the armrest becoming more pronounced as he smiled in excitement. 

“Well, as you well know, my beautifully talented husband just closed the deal of a lifetime on a _ beautiful _London apartment for a certain Mr. and Mrs. Draco Malfoy.” 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, and from what I understand, his commission will send you both travelling around Italy for a month or two. Congratulations.” 

Dean beamed. “Indeed—I long to laze under the Tuscan sun. But worry not, I’ll be back to you in no time at all; certainly before this company is lying in shambles.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Get to the point, Dean? Did you really interrupt my bath to tell me I can’t run my own company?” 

He laughed. “No, I can do that any other time. My point is—Draco was so very pleased with the service Granger Realty—and my brilliant husband—provided, that he asked Seamus for some guidance on another matter.” 

“Which is?” 

He smirked. “Draco’s own very sweet mother is looking to sell the family home.” 

Hermione choked on her whisky—it burned through her throat and lungs, prompting a rather impressive coughing fit. 

“Yes, go ahead, hack up that lung—I know this news is just _ that _momentous.” 

She glared at him as she caught her breath. “She’s selling the Manor?” she gasped in disbelief. “Malfoy Manor?” 

“M-hm,” Deam hummed, leaning across the coffee table and snatching the glass of whisky from her hands. Her glare did nothing to stop him from downing it in one satisfying gulp. “Indeed,” he smacked his lips, handing the empty glass back to Hermione. “According to Draco dearest, she would only trust the foremost expert on this field for such an undertaking.” He winked. “And that would be you.” 

“Malfoy Manor,” Hermione whispered in absolute awe. It could easily be the biggest sale of her career—the Malfoys had owned the massive estate in Wiltshire for generations. It was terribly odd that Draco was not taking it—odder still that Narcissa had not insisted on keeping and maintaining the place for future Malfoy generations. 

“Why is she selling it?” she thought aloud. Dean merely shrugged his shoulders, tapping the empty whisky glass in her hands with a loud clink. 

“I dunno,” he said with a smirk. “But you can look forward to Madam Malfoy’s owl in the morning. Cheers!” 

* * *

True to Dean’s word, an owl did come to Hermione’s home the very next morning. A big, intimidating bird with gleaming black feathers and the most frightening talons Hermione had ever seen zoomed through her window as she ate her breakfast. It carried a thick black envelope sealed with silver wax. 

“You must be Madam Malfoy’s,” Hermione muttered to the massive bird. It let out an impatient squawk, holding up its leg and offering the letter to Hermione, as if she were wasting its precious time. 

“Alright then.” Hermione pinched the corner of the envelope between her thumb and forefinger. The letter detached easily, and with another angry hoot, the bird was on its way without bothering to wait for a reply. 

Hermione quickly tore the envelope open and skimmed the letter. It was dry, polite—though not exactly cordial. It brimmed with the cold, practiced civility Hermione had become accustomed to seeing in the previous generation of Purebloods, one that was slowly being deliberately forgotten by Draco’s generation. 

Narcissa proposed—not asked or demanded—a short meeting to discuss her wishes to sell the Manor, as well as her pre-requisites for a new living arrangement, which she would like Hermione to procure. She was short and to the point, which was something Hermione could appreciate. 

It made Hermione oddly giddy. Selling off the Malfoy ancestral home filled her with a strange kind of happiness. Perhaps it would be closure for her last fateful visit—one she had overcome with much work over the years. 

She penned a reply quickly, arranging for a meeting at her home office that very afternoon. She often met higher-profile clients in her home—they preferred a more private setting, and it was normal to meet them there as opposed to the offices of Granger Realty. Purebloods loved some preferential treatment. 

Her reply went out on a Wizarding Mail owl, and Hermione hadn’t quite processed the fact that she was meeting with _the_ Narcissa Malfoy until she actually heard the doorbell announcing the witch’s presence. She had about a million questions to ask, but thankfully the years had taught her to express her unbridled curiosity a lot more tactfully. 

“Good afternoon, Lady Malfoy,” Hermione greeted politely as she opened the door. 

She was a bit floored by Narcissa’s appearance. She realized she had never truly seen the witch up close. She was—for lack of a better word—stunning. 

Narcissa stood ramrod straight, apparently held up by sheer poise alone. Her flowing black robes had only minimal golden trims for decoration, but even so, Hermione could plainly tell they were rather expensive. Narcissa also wore a pointed hat, with what _ had _to be a peacock feather adorning it at the top. Her platinum-blonde hair came down in a single expertly braided plait that went all the way to the small of her back.

The witch’s blue eyes were pure ice; her expression as she scrutinized Hermione’s foyer was entirely impassive. 

Hermione cleared her throat. “May I take your coat, Mrs. Malfoy?” 

Hermione’s question seemed to catch Narcissa off-guard, interrupting her examination of the home. The blonde’s eyes snapped to Hermione’s, and she strolled in as if she owned the place. Her beautiful coat—made of a shimmering black fur that matched her robes—was passed to Hermione in one fluid movement. 

Hermione waved her wand, sending it to the foyer closet. She followed Narcissa’s movement out of the corner of her eye. The older witch walked slowly through the foyer and the corridor, eyes scanning every wall, every nook and cranny. Without another word, Narcissa continued through to the parlour as if she knew that was where she ought to go. 

“Mrs. Malfoy?” Hermione tried quietly. The witch’s quiet scrutiny was making her nervous. 

“Black.” Narcissa retorted softly, eyes transfixed on a few Muggle photographs Hermione had framed upon her wall. “As of yesterday, my divorce has been finalized. You may address me as Ms. or Madam Black.” 

“Oh.” Hermione wasn’t sure whether she should give the witch her congratulations or her sympathy, so she figured it was probably best to stick to business. “Well, thank you for meeting with me. I hear you’re thinking about putting your home in the market.” 

“No,” Narcissa deadpanned. “I have already thought about it, and I have already made a decision. Were that not the case, I would not be standing here in your...” her eyes scanned the room once more, and whatever she saw was deemed somewhat acceptable, it seemed, “your home.” 

Hermione bristled, holding to the happy thoughts of the possible commission on this sale to keep her temper in check. Sometimes she forgot just how prickly some Purebloods could be behind their practiced poise. 

She pulled out a chair. “Naturally. Why don’t you take a seat, Madam Black?” 

Narcissa did so, lowering herself onto Hermione’s plush armchair so regally it was almost comical. Hermione situated herself at the chair facing Narcissa. 

“Tea, Ms. Black?” 

“No, thank you. I don’t anticipate being here for very long.” 

Hermione bit her tongue. “Pardon my asking, Ms. Black... but do you not have a solicitor to care for these matters?” 

“Lucius had a solicitor,” Narcissa sneered, saying her ex-husband's name as if it tasted foul. “He robbed him blind for years and Lucius never noticed.” Her eyes narrowed. 

“Fair enough,” Hermione reasoned, not wanting to poke the subject again with a ten-foot pole. “When do you want to put the Manor up for sale?” 

“As soon as you’re able. I would also like to request your assistance in procuring alternate living arrangements.” 

“Very well.” Hermione felt safe in assuming that meant she was hired. “And, just so I know where to start, where would you like to live?” 

“Anywhere suitable in Central London,” she waved Hermione off. “Don’t bother me with the nitty-gritty. Just keep in mind that money is no object—do not feel the need to narrow your search too much.” 

Hermione held in the urge to roll her eyes. “Duly noted. Now, there are a few things we must take care of before we list the Manor for sale.” She flicked her wand, summoning her clipboard and quill. “We should set up a time for me to come and do a routine inspection—see what may need to be repaired or, you know, polished. Then I can make an estimate on price. After that, we’ll need to file for a Ministry-mandated inspection so that...” 

She was interrupted by another impatient wave of Narcissa’s hand. 

“The details do not interest me; that is why I am hiring you.” She stood up before Hermione could get in another word. “Come anytime for your little inspection, Ms. Granger. Just be sure to owl me beforehand.” 

“B-but... Ms. Black!” 

Narcissa was already walking through to the foyer, summoning her coat with a wandless charm. Hermione nearly had to run to catch up with her. The blonde turned a menacing gaze once she finally did. 

“As soon as possible, Ms. Granger.” 

And she was gone. 

* * *

Hermione had a few choice words to say to Ms. Black the next time they met. She got them all out of her system yelling at her mirror, then she lay for a long soak in her bath, meditating on the galleons that commission would add to her Gringotts vault. That calmed her down considerably. 

Then, and only then, did she dare write to Ms. Black, offering a few suitable times for her to come inspect the Manor. 

She got a reply within the hour. It read simply: 

_ As soon as possible, Ms. Granger. _

There was an address at the bottom. Hermione huffed, packed her clipboard, and Apparated. 

* * *

Malfoy Manor looked... Well, it certainly looked rather imposing, even if it did not look as eerie and terrifying as it had on Hermione’s last traumatic visit. 

As grand and beautiful as the house was, it lacked care. Vines grew rampant along the stone walls, which showed several cracks. The roof could use some maintenance, and the gardens—which surely had been immaculate once upon a time—were overrun by weeds. 

It looked almost... sad. Hermione had no doubts it was a magnificent home. For whatever reason, the Malfoys had neglected it entirely. 

She sighed, thinking of the work that would have to be done before they could even think about listing. The Manor would need to undergo a serious facelift if Narcissa was so keen on selling it ‘as soon as possible.’ 

The heavy doors welcomed her in before she even had to knock. Hermione was greeted by little clouds of dust that floated in the sunlight the open doors let in. 

“Hello?” she called, hearing her own voice echo through empty halls. “Ms. Black? Anyone home?” 

“What are you, daft? Of course I am home.” 

Narcissa’s acerbic voice came in a drowsy, annoyed hiss, as if she had just woken up. But that couldn’t be—it was three in the afternoon. 

“Ms... Ah!” Hermione squealed as the doors suddenly slammed closed behind her. 

“Salazar’s snakes, will you keep your voice down?” Narcissa barked in the sudden darkness. Were there no windows in this place? Hermione heard the distinct sound of a wand zipping through the air, and several candles—on sconces on the walls and various candelabra on the ceiling—came alight. 

Hermione could finally look at Narcissa, and what she saw in the flickering light surprised her. 

Narcissa looked terrible. She was pale, almost unnaturally so; there were dark circles around her bloodshot blue eyes, and her blonde hair was down, flat and mussed. She wore a delicate white nightgown beneath a silky green robe. 

“Uh... Ms. Black, we can always do this at another time if you’re feeling indisposed.” 

Narcissa’s red-rimmed eyes shot daggers her way. 

“Were I feeling indisposed, Ms. Granger, I would not have called you here. Your concern is quite misplaced.” 

“Right,” Hermione conceded, shaking herself off. Business, and only business then. Where would you like to start?” 

Narcissa shrugged petulantly. “You’re the expert—do as you wish.” 

Hermione silently counted to ten, plastering her best saleswoman smile on her face. “Very well, then. We’ll start downstairs and work out way up. How does that sound?” 

Narcissa merely gave her a look, which made Hermione want to roll her eyes. “Right. I’m the expert. Off we pop, then.” 

She could swear she heard Narcissa groan. 

* * *

Going through the home inspection with Narcissa was like pulling teeth. She made very few comments, offered absolutely no help in guiding Hermione through the labyrinthine corridors of the Manor, and generally seemed to be completely out of it, lagging behind on more than one occasion. 

The Manor was quite in a state of disarray—portraits and furniture were missing, windows were broken and walls were cracked, and the entire place was covered in an unbelievable amount of dust. It certainly did not look liveable—Hermione could scarcely believe someone’s of Narcissa’s social calibre would—or even could—be living in such a place. 

Of course, Narcissa did not look particularly representative of her social status at the moment. If Hermione had to hazard a guess, if she didn’t know any better, she would dare say the Great Narcissa Malfoy was, well... hungover. Or possibly still drunk. 

“Alright, the south stairs will definitely need to be repaired before listing...” Hermione muttered, quill scratching away at her parchment. She had already gathered a ridiculously thick stack of notes, and they were barely getting started with the glacial pace they were on. 

Narcissa made no comment. She had made very few in the entire time they had spent walking about the Manor. Sometimes Hermione wondered if the other witch was even listening to a word she said. 

They made their way through the basement, then wound through to the West Wing on the ground floor when Hermione suddenly opened a heavy oak door, only to nearly collide with a brick wall. 

“What the...?” She turned to Narcissa, who trailed far behind. “Ms. Black?” 

“Hm?” 

Hermione motioned towards the bricked off door. “What’s behind this wall?” 

Narcissa’s eyes seemed to glaze over, then suddenly regained focus, zeroing in on the door and widening in something akin to panic. 

“Nothing of importance,” she murmured weakly. Hermione could feel magic radiating off Narcissa and curling around her, slamming the door shut with a resounding echo in an impressive wandless, soundless display. 

“I think we are done for the day.” Narcissa said, eyes glimmering with a sudden clarity that had not been there before. 

Hermione wanted to protest, but that icy blue gaze stopped her. 

“Good day, Ms. Granger.” 

* * *

Hermione’s second meeting with Narcissa only served to puzzle her further. Uneasy about their encounter at the Manor, Hermione decided to change gears and focus on the other part of Narcissa’s plans—finding her a new place to live. 

She reserved a table at one of her usual restaurants in London. Understated, quiet, and most importantly private, it was perfect for a business lunch. 

The Narcissa that strolled into the restaurant was much more reminiscent of the elegant witch Hermione had met at home. Her cheeks were dusted with pink from the cold air outside, and while her skin was admittedly pale, she looked quite healthy. Her hair was up in an elaborate up-do, and her lips were plump, painted over in a soft shade of pink. 

“Hello, Ms. Black,” Hermione greeted her warmly despite her confusion, standing as soon as Narcissa approached. 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Granger,” Narcissa spoke coldly, not sparing Hermione a glance. She took a seat and immediately began tapping her manicured nails on the table. 

“What is the purpose of this meeting, Ms. Granger?” She drawled impatiently. 

Hermione held back a sigh as she took her own seat. “I thought it would be good to go over your requirements for your new home. It’ll help me get a head start with my search,” she explained, trying to keep her tone as civil as she possibly could. 

“Spacious, lots of natural light, private. I would prefer a Wizarding area, though I am not opposed to a Muggle-populated area—as long as I have my privacy.” 

Hermione opened her mouth, then immediately closed it. How could that woman tell her so much while telling her so little? The simple fact that Narcissa Black was willing to live in a Muggle area spoke volumes. Her preferences, however, did very little to help Hermione. 

“Right,” she said through gritted teeth. Her quill scratched a little too strongly over her clipboard as she wrote. “Spacious, private...” 

“With sufficient natural light,” Narcissa interjected, still tapping at the table in impatience. 

Hermione forced a smile. “Yes, of course.” 

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed as she peered over Hermione’s notes. Hermione had an inexplicable but thankfully controllable urge to hide them. 

“Was this meeting really at all necessary, Ms. Granger?” she drawled acerbically. “We could have easily accomplished this over owl.” 

Hermione forced her smile to keep tugging at her lips. 

“I find that discussing a client’s preferences in person gives me a better idea of what they want.” 

Narcissa did not look convinced. “If you say so.” 

* * *

Hermione’s second visit to Malfoy Manor went very much the same way as her first. Narcissa met her at the door, looking at lot like she had that first time—entirely different from the poised, elegant witch Hermione seen at home and at the restaurant. 

This time, Narcissa was a little more proactive; she led Hermione through the East Wing of the Manor—far away from the bricked door in the opposite wing—going through the kitchens and guest quarters instead. 

Down in the kitchens—the dusty, dilapidated, and very clearly abandoned kitchens—a sudden thought occurred to Hermione. 

“Ms. Black,” she started, eyeing the mass of cobwebs sprawling over the exposed rafters on the ceiling. “Where... where are all the House-Elves?” 

“Hm?” Narcissa hummed, distractedly swiping a finger over a dusty counter, leaving a trail that exposed the exquisite granite beneath the thick layer of dust. 

“House-Elves,” Hermione began again, pieces slowly clicking into place. No wonder the Manor was in such a state—there were no signs of any servants anywhere. “Where did they all go? Surely the Manor had more than a few uh... employed here.” 

“Oh,” Narcissa spoke airily, examining the dust on her finger. “I freed them all before the divorce,” her lips tugged into a smug little smirk. “Lucius was absolutely furious. Serves him right, the bastard.” 

Hermione’s eyes went wide. She tried to process what Narcissa had just told her, but found that she couldn’t quite do it. It just left her with more questions. 

She did not have the opportunity to ask any of them. Narcissa’s eyes seemed to glaze over once again, and she turned away from Hermione, wiping away at the dust on the counters as her fingers trailed limply along the granite, leaving marks on the dust. 

“I think we are done for today, Ms. Granger.” 

* * *

Hermione had hopes that procuring a new place for Narcissa to live would be comparatively easier than the ongoing Manor inspection. At the very least, Narcissa seemed somewhat human when they met outside the Manor—this morning she had Apparated at Hermione’s door in an exquisite set of emerald green robes and coat embroidered with golden silk. She held her head high, walking with grace and poise on heels that clicked loudly onto the pavement. 

She shot down every single option Hermione had painstakingly researched and selected. 

One particular flat had “an odd window facing South.” Another had a “most displeasing set of stairs.” A beautiful, recently renovated historic town-home from the Victorian era had the misfortune of being located on a “rather abhorrent little mud path passing as a street.” Muggle or Wizarding, nothing held up to Ms. Black’s confounding standards. 

Hermione was terribly annoyed with Narcissa’s oddly specific and entirely unpredictable feedback. Narcissa liked columns until she utterly despised them; she wanted wide, spacious flats until she wanted something cosy and comforting; she wanted a garden until she wanted no plants or greenery at all. 

She was utterly impossible to please, and Hermione almost began to prefer the nearly catatonic Narcissa that followed her around the Manor to this insufferable woman. 

“Were any of these to your liking, Ms. Black?” Hermione asked through gritted teeth at the end of the day, clipboard nearly shaking in her hand with the force of her grip. 

Narcissa turned up her nose in distaste. “Most of these were inadequate. I thought I was quite clear at our redundant little meeting last time.” 

Hermione held back the urge to whack her with her clipboard. 

* * *

On Hermione’s third visit to Malfoy Manor, Narcissa did not even bother greeting her at all. There was merely a note on the door, instructing her to inspect the gardens and the outside of the Manor. 

A bit miffed, Hermione got to work, cataloguing every crack on the walls, every broken window or roof tile, every growth of cumbersome vines. There was a lot to be done—the list of repairs and improvements began to grow rather long indeed, and they were nowhere near done. 

She was nearly finished cataloguing the last few odds and ends in the gardens when she noticed light at one of the windows on the second floor, at the West Wing. 

Hermione glanced at her watch. There was still plenty of time—after all, Narcissa was nowhere around to say “I think we are done for the day, Ms. Granger.” She would have to inspect the upper floors and the West Wing eventually—why not get it started now? Sooner was better than later, she decided. 

The house was utterly silent when she walked in—there was no sign of Narcissa anywhere. 

Hermione was briefly tempted by the mysterious bricked room, but her curiosity pulled her upstairs. She ascended the grand marble staircase, and even her most careful steps echoed through the empty, dusty halls. 

The West Wing extended into a wide, seemingly endless corridor. All along the walls, there were faded spots on the wallpaper, where several portraits had no doubt been. Hermione wondered what happened to them. 

There was light coming from the end of the hall, just a sliver through a door that was cracked open. 

She knew she should not have come up. Even if Narcissa had never explicitly forbidden her from doing so, the witch was quite clearly going through something Hermione couldn’t quite comprehend. Worrying about it was in no way part of Hermione’s job description. 

The thought gave her pause. She _ was _indeed worried—but why? And for Narcissa Black, of all people—the woman had never once been friendly towards her. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

There was a sound—a moan, a whimper of distress through the open door. 

Something was wrong, and it was enough for Hermione to throw caution to the wind and rush through the door in a panic. 

“Ms. Black?” she called as the whimpers grew louder. 

Narcissa was in bed, tangled in an absurd number of blankets and sheets, writhing as if she were fighting off an invisible enemy. She had her eyes closed and lips pulled into a tight grimace; beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, and platinum blonde hair stuck to her skin. 

“Ms. Black!” Hermione rushed to her side in worry. There was a loud noise of glass hitting glass—she looked down to see dozens of discarded potions phials littering the floor around Narcissa’s bed. She recognized the label as Extra-Strong Dreamless Draught. 

“Ah, _ shit!” _she muttered, approaching Narcissa’s side. The woman was drenched in sweat—her nightgown clung to her skin. 

Now Narcissa’s odd behaviours started making a whole lot of sense. Without thinking, Hermione took hold of Narcissa’s shoulders—Merlin, how thin and frail they felt. Her skin was incredibly cold, and Hermione could feel her shivers as she desperately tried to shake Narcissa awake. 

“Ms. Black! Narcissa! Wake up!” she barked, shaking Narcissa’s shoulders desperately. 

Blue eyes opened just a little, looking dazed, confused, absent. It didn’t seem like they recognized Hermione at all. 

“Narcissa,” Hermione hissed, hoping to force some recognition. She looked worriedly at the great number of discarded phials, her mind running over the side effects of a Dreamless Draught overdose and not liking what she remembered. 

Narcissa’s eyes closed again. “Narcissa!” Hermione yelled, holding the witch’s cheeks in her hands. “Listen to me,” she gently shook Narcissa a bit more forcefully as the blonde’s eyes opened once more. “Listen to me—_ listen. _How many did you take?” 

Narcissa blinked, struggling to focus. Her eyes were clouded and distant. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she could finally string together coherent words. 

“N-nine. Nine, I... I think.” 

“Bloody fucking hell,” Hermione muttered angrily, knowing full well the prescribed dosage was not to exceed two phials before bed. “Why would you do such a thing?!” 

Narcissa only whimpered, hands weakly batting at Hermione’s arms, fighting some frightening vision that did not exist. Hermione began to panic. 

“I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s.” She declared emphatically, looping Narcissa’s weak arms over her shoulders, ready to carry her out herself. She didn’t know how to help if Narcissa was in a hallucinatory stage. 

The mention of the Wizarding Hospital sent a shiver of momentary clarity to Narcissa’s eyes—with it came sheer and unadulterated panic. 

“No,” she grasped, grabbing at Hermione’s arms with sudden, bruising force. “N-not the hospital,” she cried, tears rolling down her pale cheeks. 

“Ow! Ow, alright, alright, no hospital.” Hermione conceded, thinking quickly, frightened by Narcissa’s state. “Oh, oh, oh! Bezoar! Do you have bezoar? Narcissa!” 

The witch’s answer was a weak nod. “K-kitchen,” she whispered through gritted teeth. 

Hermione freed her wand arm from Narcissa’s grip, unsheathing her wand as fast as she was able and whipping it through the air in a panic. 

“_ACCIO_ BEZOAR!” she yelped, waiting for a few tense seconds during which her panic and anxiety mounted. Finally, a bezoar stone whizzed through the door, zipping through the air with extraordinary speed. Hermione caught it as if she were a trained seeker, forcefully pushing it past Narcissa’s cold lips immediately after. 

* * *

Hermione had to stop and wonder how—and, of course, why—in Merlin’s name did she end up in the situation she presently found herself in. 

At the moment, she was in Narcissa’s admittedly decadent bathroom, holding the witch’s silky strands back as Narcissa hunched rather inelegantly over the toilet bowl, vomiting a nasty, reddish brown and impossibly viscous substance—an excess of Dreamless Draught. 

Hermione could only sigh and wait for it to be over. Never had she been so thankful for her invasive curiosity—she dreaded to think of what might have happened if she had not intruded. 

Eventually, Narcissa’s vomiting stopped and her breathing evened out. She hid her face in the crook of her elbow, taking deep, long breaths. 

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked with a soft pat to Narcissa’s back. Her only response was a weak, subdued nod. 

Hermione practically carried Narcissa—she was so weak, scarcely able to stand upright—back to bed. She tucked the witch into bed, under fresh blankets and tidied up the room a bit, vanishing every empty phial of Dreamless Draught she could find. In Narcissa’s nightstand, she found several full phials, hidden away. After debating the decision for a moment, she vanished those as well. 

She turned to Narcissa, who lay awake but only just, curled into herself under her covers. 

“Is there anyone who can stay with you? Just for the night?” Hermione asked tentatively. 

There was no response. Narcissa’s eyes were barely open, looking at something far, far away. Hermione sighed. 

“I could owl Draco... maybe he could...” 

“No.” 

It came in a hoarse, utterly dejected whisper, so low Hermione was not entirely sure she heard it. 

“Can... can I call anyone else, then? Andromeda?” 

“Thank you for your help, Ms. Granger,” Narcissa said with a terribly weak voice, though she sounded a little more like herself now. “I feel better now. You may go—thank you for you assistance.” 

The dismissal hurt, unexpectedly so. “Pardon me if I am overstepping, Ms. Black... but I don’t think you should be alone tonight.” Hermione said, trying to keep the tremor in her voice at bay. 

Narcissa’s eyes turned to glass. “You _ are _overstepping. Go.” 

Hermione opened her mouth, ready with a retort, but Narcissa closed her eyes and murmured a single word, her tone full of dejection and deep, deep anguish. 

“Please.” 

Hermione swallowed her worry and left, leaving Narcissa alone in the darkened room. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione told Andromeda. 

She did not want to stop to think about the consequences of such an admittedly idiotic decision, but really, what was she to do? She dreaded to think of the fallout. Best-case scenario, Narcissa would be all better and she would be fired—it would be a bittersweet goodbye to all the zeroes that sale would have added to her bank account, but that was something she could live with. What she could not live with was the thought of Andromeda arriving at the Manor and finding her estranged sister catatonic, or worse. 

She knew telling Andromeda was risky, but what where her options? She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin’s sakes, and she would not leave someone alone when there was something so clearly wrong. It was against her nature. 

That being said, she was afraid of going back there herself. It wasn’t her place. 

And  so she wrote a rather awkward, urgent letter to Andromeda—what else could she possibly do for Narcissa? The blonde had been rather adamantly against bringing Draco to check in on her, so Hermione felt like her hands were tied. 

Andromeda had not bothered with a response, at least not immediately. A few days after her letter, days Hermione spent writhing in anxiety but unable to do anything other than wallow in it, the witch had come to her house, nearly knocking her door down with forceful, impatient knocks. Hermione was almost afraid to let her in. 

“My sister,” Andromeda barked as soon as Hermione opened the door, barging in without a care. “How long has she been this way?” 

Hermione threw her hands up, trying not to take the woman’s accusatory tone personally. She couldn’t even imagine the amount of hatred and heartbreak Andromeda had to simply overlook to drop everything and check on Narcissa. 

“I don’t know, Andy. I’ve only seen her a handful of times over the past two weeks. She seemed fine away from the Manor... but whenever I came for inspections, I could tell something was off.” 

Andromeda’s eyes were filled with anguish. 

“She nearly overdosed the last time I was there,” Hermione continued. “She had taken nine phials of Dreamless Draught,” she paused, allowing Andromeda to process the severity of the situation. “She was... in bad shape.” 

Andromeda sunk into a seated position right there on the floor of Hermione’s foyer. Hermione followed suit, worried. 

“She’s a mess,” said the witch in a frustrated whisper. “The Manor, too, it’s... everything is in ruins. There’s dust everywhere, and, and...”

“I know.” Hermione pressed a hand to Andromeda’s shoulder in sympathy. “I saw.” 

“How could this happen?” Andromeda questioned out loud. “I don’t understand...” 

“She let the House-Elves go before the divorce.” Hermione quipped, remembering what Narcissa had told her. It didn’t explain everything, of course, but it at least helped elaborate on why the house itself was in its current state. At the very least...

Hermione suddenly noticed Andromeda had frozen in place. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, and her mouth hung open, moving slightly as if she were trying to form words but could not quite do so. “Andy?” 

“After the  _ what _ ?” 

Hermione bit her lip, mentally kicking herself. She had not realized Andromeda didn’t know. 

“The... divorce,” Hermione confirmed with a shrug. “As far as I know, it was finalized a couple of weeks ago.”

Andromeda pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a heavy sigh. “Finali—a few weeks?! I can’t—” she exhaled forcefully once more, free hand balling into a fist at her side as her frustration brimmed over the edge— “what about Draco? Where was he during all of this?”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “He moved out a couple of months ago,” she told the witch, remembering what Dean had told her before she took on the Manor job. 

Andromeda shook her head rapidly. “This has been going on far longer than a few months,” she said firmly, eyes brimming with tears. “She’s unrecognizable, Hermione.” 

Hermione didn’t know what to say or do. Part of her felt incredibly guilty for bringing Andromeda into this mess, but if not her last remaining sister, who would care for Narcissa?

She narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know what she had gotten herself into.

* * *

Andromeda basically implored for Hermione’s help, and the brunette found very little reason to possibly say no. Part of it was due to her guilt for pulling Andromeda into this; the other part came from an unexpected but genuine worry over the youngest Black’s wellbeing. 

Narcissa was faring much better than when Hermione had last seen her—she was not only fully conscious, but also well enough to send the young witch a powerful, withering glare as soon as their eyes locked when Hermione came to the Manor with Andromeda.

“What is  _ she  _ doing here?” Narcissa hissed in a weak but venomous voice, the word ‘she’ like a curse upon her tongue.

Hermione flinched at the tone, but Andromeda was clearly having none of it.

“ _ She  _ is the  _ only  _ reason you’re not being carted off to St. Mungo’s this very second, so I suggest you watch your bloody tone.” 

There was unbridled fury in those icy blue eyes, but it seemed Andromeda still had that Black family glare and imposing tone down pat, for there were no more protestations of any kind coming from Narcissa from then on. 

The next few days were indubitably some of the strangest of Hermione’s life, and she felt like that was saying something, considering the life she had lead up until that point.

The first thing Andromeda requested her help with was the arduous and surprisingly complex task of locating and disposing of every single phial of Dreamless Draught Narcissa still kept in the house. Unsurprisingly, that number turned out to be staggering. 

It was astonishing, really. Every bathroom, every nook and cranny had an impressive stash hidden away just so. Hermione wondered how in Merlin’s name Draco never noticed anything remotely unusual with his mother. By the looks of it, she had been using the potion in continuously larger amounts every night for what seemed to be years. 

It filled Hermione with some kind of sadness. She knew first-hand that the rest provided by a Dreamless Draught was impermanent and feeble—a quick fix for a few sleepless nights, but hardly a crutch to get on by for years on end.

She was also scared and undeniably impressed by how well Narcissa was able to fake her way through being completely broken inside whenever she was not at the Manor. That illusion took some dedication and delusion.

Because Narcissa resolutely refused to go to St. Mungo’s for treatment, it fell to Andromeda and Hermione to resort to extremes. Andromeda locked Narcissa’s wand out of reach, then prepared to spend a full night navigating the harrowing terrors of the nightmare’s that plagued Narcissa’s fitful, potion-less sleep. Hermione had only heard her screams once through the door—the pain and agony in them were so raw they sent chills down her spine. 

On the fourth or so day of seeing Andromeda look like a complete wreck after a particularly dreadful night, Hermione’s resolve gave out.

“Go home tonight, Andy. Get some sleep.” 

Andromeda clearly did not have the strength nor the will to argue, even for courtesy’s sake. 

And  so Hermione found herself in Narcissa’s bedroom that evening. Narcissa did not look thrilled to see her there, but she made no comment as Hermione took a seat at the armchair by the window. Without a word, the two witches began to read, waiting for sleep to come to Narcissa. 

Hermione had read nearly half of the book she’d brought when she checked her watch. It was nearly one in the morning, and Narcissa’s bedside lamp was still lit. It didn’t look like Narcissa had moved a muscle in hours.

Hermione suppressed a yawn. “Maybe we should think about trying to get some sleep for a little while,” she said softly.

There was no response. When Hermione turned in her chair to look at Narcissa, she saw the blonde’s eyes were wide open, puffy and red. The pages of the book she held trembled in the air as her arms and shoulders shook violently.

“Narcissa?”

“It’s no use,” Narcissa whispered, voice hoarse with tears. “I cannot do it.”

Hermione panicked as Narcissa’s tears started rolling down her cheeks. “Hey,” she tried in her gentlest tone, moving to sit at the bed, by Narcissa’s side. Tentatively, she reached for one of Narcissa’s tremulous hands, holding it tightly in her own. Narcissa seemed startled by the gesture—Hermione felt surprised herself.

“You...” she hesitated, second-guessing herself. What sort of comfort could she offer Narcissa, really?  “You ... you can talk to me, if you’d like.”

There was a tentative squeeze of her hand, and Narcissa choked out something between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re the last person I should talk to—particularly about this,” Narcissa said, teary eyes looking away from Hermione. “I can’t bear to close my eyes.”

The confession struck a chord deep within Hermione. She knew exactly what Narcissa meant. She gave the witch’s hand another squeeze. “What do you see when you do?”

Narcissa bit her lip, holding back a whimper. Her free hand went directly to her mouth, as if she were trying to physically stop her words from coming out. 

Hermione swallowed. “I only ask because... I know what it’s like,” she admitted.

For a moment, it didn’t matter that this was Narcissa Malfoy—it didn’t matter that this woman, this very house Hermione had been hired to sell featured so heavily in nightmares that had kept her awake in screaming fits for years after the war.

It was very strange, and unexpectedly saddening, to see someone from ‘the other side’ plagued by similar monsters.

Narcissa’s blue eyes were like glass—cold, distant, hard-set and glimmering in the candlelight. The intensity of her gaze caught Hermione off-guard; it was like Narcissa was seeing—not just looking at her for the first time. 

“What did you see?” she asked, her timid whisper barely audible. “In your dreams?” 

Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself. This was not a subject she had revisited often—or at all—since her own nightmares subsided. She never imagined she would have this conversation with anyone, let alone Narcissa Malfoy. If anyone had even suggested the possibility, she would have laughed in their face, and perhaps arranged a transport to St. Mungo’s Magical Maladies department. 

Oh, well. 

“I saw Bellatrix,” Hermione spoke clearly, with a confidence she had worked hard on building through years of therapy and self-reflection. 

It broke her heart, in a way, to see Narcissa physically flinch upon hearing her dead sister’s name. There was a part of Hermione that wanted to feel smug, a diminutive part that wanted to think ‘serves you right’ But that feeling—that deep-seated hatred, and most importantly, that  paralyzing feel—all of that was long, long gone. 

She wished Narcissa could be free of it too. 

Hermione squeezed Narcissa’s hand a little tighter, hoping to reassure her through the truth. 

“I saw her. I heard her screaming at me. I felt that knife on my arm, all over again. Sometimes... Sometimes I saw you, standing there and watching it happen.” 

She didn’t want to be accusatory, but with the way Narcissa recoiled, she figured the truth was a rather bitter pill to swallow. 

“How...” Narcissa’s voice broke, lost in the darkness as she angrily wiped away at her tears. “How can you do this? How can you stand even looking at  me, much less being in this house, where... where...” 

Purely on instinct, Hermione wiped at the other witch’s cheeks; Narcissa’s eyes widened in  surprise at her touch.

“It wasn’t easy,” Hermione admitted. “It took a long time—lots of talking it over with professionals. Time—with friends, family, and by myself as well. There were good nights and bad nights—sometimes it felt like the bad might outweigh the good, but in the end, they didn’t. To be honest, there are still some bad nights, but they are few and far between.” 

Narcissa’s lips pulled into a sad little smile. 

“Time,” she whispered, her voice weighed down by utter hopelessness. “It has been years already.” 

Hermione could understand that despair. It was what made her seek professional help, when the Dreamless Draught became an untenable short-term solution to a  long-term problem. 

“Yes, it has.” She conceded. “But you’ve been facing it all alone.” 

That had been a guess, of course, but Hermione could feel it was not an uneducated one. Her husband—or ex-husband—was rotting in prison with the rest of the Death Eaters. Draco, for whatever reason, did not seem at all involved in his mother’s life—perhaps he had demons of his own to face. Finally, Narcissa’s only sister was estranged, though Hermione hoped this unfortunate incident just might bring them together. 

“I have always been alone,” Narcissa whispered, with a strange resoluteness to her tone. “I found ways to thrive in solitude.” 

“But you don’t have to be,” Hermione reassured her. “You’ve got a kick-ass realtor by your side now.” 

That made Narcissa chuckle. “And hey,” Hermione continued, “you’ve got a friend in me. If you want one.” 

Narcissa looked befuddled. “A friend,” she said, as if she were experimenting having the word roll off her tongue. “I cannot recall the last time I had one of those,” she admitted shyly. 

“Wel, reset that counter. You’ve just got a new one. And I’ll stay here with you all night if necessary. Alright?” 

Narcissa’s shy nod of confirmation was a victory, a step in the right direction. The road would be smoother from now on, Hermione was sure of it.

* * *

Considering her own past experience, Hermione came to realize she had severely underestimated how difficult the adjustment would be for Narcissa. 

She should have known better, of course. 

Given her own long, winding path to recovery and healing, it should have been obvious that one eye-opening conversation and one new friend wouldn’t exactly cut it to get Narcissa there overnight. 

And boy, what a night. 

Hermione had stayed true to her promise—she  _ did  _ stay by Narcissa’s side all through the night, nestled rather awkwardly and uncomfortably on the arm-chair by the bay window of Narcissa’s lavish bedroom. She had even managed to doze off for a few moments. 

Then came the screams.

There was no warning, just the blood-curdling sounds of Narcissa’s screams filling the room as she writhed against some invisible evil. 

“Narcissa!” Hermione yelled, scrambling out of her chair. 

The blonde had her eyes forced shut, mouth agape in a shrieking grimace. Her arms swung violently, madly in all directions at her sides, batting off whatever it was she saw in her nightmare. 

“Narcissa!”

It was in vain—Hermione's desperate call was drowned out by the witch’s shrieks of utter terror. She rushed to Narcissa’s side, frantically trying to still her flailing arms enough for her to get close enough. 

Narcissa’s face contorted into frowns and grimaces—when she did not scream, her jaw clenched so tightly Hermione could hear the horrifying sound of her teeth grinding together with extreme force. 

“Narcissa! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

There was a loud crackle of sound, not unlike thunder; it shook the walls with its sudden strength. Hermione could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand, reacting to the deep rumble that resonated through the room. She felt the crackle of Narcissa’s unintentional, raw magical response.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath as the doors of the wardrobe swung open and the windows rattled with the sheer force of Narcissa’s defensive magical response. Her whole body trembled violently beneath the sheets, fists opening and closing on mounds of fabric that flailed in tandem with her arms. 

“Narcissa,” Hermione tried again, a bit more softly. She finally managed to trap the witch’s flailing arms under the blanket, holding on tightly. “Narcissa. You’re alright; you’re  _ safe.  _ What you’re seeing is not real. You’re dreaming.”

The shaking slowly began to subside; the screams eventually faded into whimpers and quiet sobs that escaped through painfully gritted teeth. Hermione held Narcissa in a firm embrace, breathing loudly and deeply against Narcissa’s body until she could feel the witch begin to mimic her actions. The continuous shaking in Narcissa’s body became intermittent, short jolts as Hermione patted her back soothingly. 

“ Ssh . It’s alright,” she whispered kindly, once Narcissa’s breathing had begun to even out. “You’re OK.” 

Before long she felt the heat of tears pooling at her neck, and the movement of eyelashes fluttering open against her skin. The slight tremors she felt in Narcissa’s body now came from her sobs. 

Hermione held her until the sun began to rise. 

* * *

“Oh, my... goodness.” 

Hermione cracked one eye open at the awed voice. The utterly befuddled sound came from somewhere nearby—it was close, very close. 

She made an attempt at turning towards the voice, only to find her left side effectively pinned down by a comfortable, warm weight. 

“Hermione?”

With a sleepy grunt, Hermione craned her neck as far as it would go in a rather uncomfortable stretch, only just managing to catch a glimpse of the unexpected visitor. 

Her sleep-laden eyes connected with Andromeda’s wide-eyed look of surprise.

“Eugh...” 

That was her best attempt at saying something the lines of ‘Good morning to you, Andy, how are you doing on this fine morning?’ 

However, she had come to take note of quite a few things; one being the fact that she was absolutely exhausted—whatever time it was, it certainly was not waking time; she would be going back to bed at once. Two—noticed after her utter exhaustion—she was not in her bed; in fact, she was not in her home at all. 

Which led to the most startling of discoveries: the comfortable, warm weight effectively pinning her down was none other than a sleeping—a  _ peacefully  _ sleeping—Narcissa Malfoy. The blonde had her head on her shoulder and an arm wound around her waist. Her breathing was deep and slow in the cadence of slumber, and her eyes were closed softly. The light of the sun peeked out from the heavy curtains, washing them both in a golden light that made Narcissa’s blonde hair shine beautifully. 

It was an amazingly pretty sight. 

“Oh,” Hermione groaned, her sleep-addled brain processing things rather slowly. She registered happiness in seeing Narcissa like this—it made her chest feel pleasantly warm. “She’s asleep.”

Andromeda laughed, then immediately covered her mouth with her hands, with a sudden look of fright. 

“By Merlin’s beard, we better not wake her up!” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA DID I REALLY SAY THIS WOULD ONLY HAVE 3 CHAPTERS
> 
> I fooled you and myself.
> 
> FOUR, K?? FOUR, NO MORE

After that first, eventful night at Malfoy Manor, Hermione’s days began to take on a very strange routine. She would care for her affairs at home during the day as usual, then take some time to keep searching for places Narcissa might be interested in living in. In the late afternoons, she would  Apparate back to Malfoy Manor to check in with Narcissa and Andromeda. 

And then, she would inevitably stay the night. 

She kept telling herself that she only stayed with Narcissa through her night terrors because she felt guilty for upending poor Andromeda’s life like this. 

There was, however, a not-so-insignificant part of her that simply  _ knew  _ that was nowhere even remotely close to the truth. Her heart—plus the indomitable nature that drove her to simply find a way to succeed at absolutely everything—knew that she wanted to see Narcissa’s recovery through until the very end. 

The reason? If Hermione had to pick a practical one, she would say she would very much like to be paid for the services she had been hired for—she was still working as Narcissa’s letting agent, for Merlin’s sake. Even if that line of reasoning grew flimsier by the day, that was her story, and she would stick to it. 

But there was another, bigger, much more illogical reason to want to see this whole thing through. It had nothing to do with a pay-check, or feeling guilty for Andromeda. No, this had everything to do with the simply, insufferable little fact that she was Hermione Sodding Granger, and she simply could not make herself stop caring altogether—even if it _ was  _ Narcissa Black, a woman so close to the epicentre of her own nightmares, she directed that care towards. 

That was how she found herself back at Malfoy Manor, day in and day out. She would arrive in the early afternoon, just in time to help Andromeda tidy up the Manor a bit—Hermione suspected the woman was just looking for any possible task, big or small, to distract herself, and fixing up the place provided ample opportunity for distraction, diverting her thoughts from the predicament she found herself in with her sister, at least for a little while. 

She and Andromeda would work silently for an hour or two, dusting rooms and removing cobwebs and shooing off Dust Pixies from every corner they could reach. Narcisa would always remain in her room upstairs during this time; Hermione had never seen her come down, not even for dinner. 

In the evenings, Andromeda and Hermione would alternate their shifts, spending every other night with Narcissa each. Even during Andromeda’s nights, Hermione somehow found herself staying at the Manor overnight, in one of the guest bedrooms she and Andromeda had cleared up. She would wake from a restless sleep to Narcissa’s blood-curdling screams that carried all through the West Wing. They would go on for hours, and Hermione would lie in bed and listen for as long as it took for the agonizing shrieks to subside. 

She could have easily cast one of several useful charms to silence her room enough for a quiet slumber, but no matter how loud or heart-wrenching Narcissa’s screams became, Hermione could never bring herself to do it. Somehow, it didn’t feel fair to Narcissa or Andromeda to tune out the troubled witch’s panic. 

In the mornings, if she had spent the night in the guest room, Hermione would go down to the now immaculate and freshly-stocked kitchens to prepare some breakfast for herself and Andromeda. The middle Black sister would come down, dishevelled and tired, with deep dark circles under her eyes, greeting Hermione with a sheepish smile. 

“She does better in the mornings,” Andromeda would say as she practically inhaled a pot of strongly brewed tea before returning to Narcissa’s room with a tray. 

The times when Hermione watched over Narcissa were quite different. Andromeda chose to retire much earlier than normal in those days, most likely to catch up on the sleep she had lost watching over her sister, and Hermione would usually take a late afternoon tea with Narcissa in the blonde’s room. 

Hermione quite liked those days, if she had to be honest. She and Narcissa would spend the hours before sleep talking and reading together. 

And unless Hermione was going completely insane, she could swear that Narcissa thoroughly enjoyed their talks as well. They never spoke about family or about the War—it was an unspoken agreement between the two that those subjects were taboo—they were simply too hard to stomach, for both of them. 

Anything else, however, was fair game. Hermione came to learn that Narcissa was an avid reader, who, much like herself, had found refuge and solace in the world of words when the pressures and demands of real life got to be too much. Hermione was also pleased to learn that their literary tastes were very similar; enough to stimulate thoughtful conversation and invigorating debates , and she would be lying if she said she didn’t think those talks did Narcissa good. She also learned that the witch was an incredibly fast reader, one able to commit to memory much of what she read after even a cursory glance of the page. 

One late afternoon, Narcissa had thoroughly surprised Hermione by finishing her copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ in only a couple of hours. 

“Andy gave you that book only this morning,” she commented, amazed. 

Narcissa smiled as idly flipped through the well-worn pages of Hermione’s copy. Her manner was easy-going and carefree; she certainly seemed to be in high spirits today. 

“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of  any thing than a book!” she quoted verbatim with a smile. 

Hermione could not contain her chuckle. “I’m certainly glad you enjoyed it,” she said, honestly happy to see Narcissa in such a contagiously cheerful mood. Most days, the blonde was withdrawn and morose, but ever since their little afternoon chats started, Narcissa’s mood had begun to show signs of remarkable improvement. 

Her smile widened considerably. “It did salvage what would surely have been a dreadfully boring day,” she said. 

The little smile tugging at her lips—the one that made her absolutely radiant in the afternoon sunlight, it began to fade as Narcissa’s gaze moved towards her window, at the twilight hues that quickly approached through her open curtains. As the day began to draw to a close, her apprehension began to build. 

It was, unfortunately, something Hermione could understand. Despite the progress she had been making over the past few days, she had yet to make it through a full night without an explosive fit of screams and trashing in her bed. 

Andromeda was right—her sister did better in the mornings, when she was simply too exhausted by the night terrors’ toll on her body to do anything but collapse into bed. 

“Hey,” Hermione approached the bed with a cautious smile. She sat at the foot of the bed, drawing Narcissa’s attention from the bay window. “How about we talk a little bit about where you’re going to be living pretty soon, eh?”

The distraction had the desired effect. Narcissa turned to face her with a bewildered expression. 

“What... what do you mean?”

Hermione shrugged. “That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?” she pointed out. “I know things have been uh... derailed a fair amount, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep looking in the meantime.” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “I intend to do my job right.” 

Narcissa’s eyes widened, and her lips parted forming a soft ‘O’, like she had completely forgotten how and why Hermione had been brought into her life in the first place. 

Suddenly, Hermione felt nervous. “If you don’t mind, that is?”

Narcissa shook her head, bringing her knees up to her chest under the luxurious blankets. She looked so young then, somehow. So vulnerable and innocent, and Hermione felt her chest tighten inexplicably at the sight. “No,” she said. “Not at all.”

Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, but was able to flash a smile all the same. “Great! I’ve got a few options,” she zipped her wand through the air, summoning her ledger—complete with descriptions and pictures of several properties Narcissa might be interested in. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

The experience this time was completely different than anything else Hermione was accustomed to when it came to Narcissa and house-hunting. As they sat side-by-side on the blonde’s frankly  unnecessarily gigantic mattress, Narcissa flipped the pages of the ledger with clear interest. Her feedback, until then non-existent, was now freely given, and Hermione did not even have to try remarkably hard to get it. Her rejections were now thought-out, and her reasoning clear and concise. 

“Not this one,” she would sometimes say. “I think I would prefer something... a little more cheerful. Modern. I’ve had enough of grand staircases and marble flooring.”

“Fair enough,” Hermione would say. “How about...”

And  so it went, for hours. By the end, Hermione had a pretty clear idea of what Narcissa wanted—she even had a place in mind already, but she had decided to keep that little  tid -bit to herself for now. They had exhausted the possibilities listed in her ledger, and at some  point during their perusal they had just... laid back, side by side onto the frankly staggering number of pillows Narcissa kept on her bed. 

Narcissa’s golden hair fanned out like a halo onto the dark silk pillowcases, and her blue eyes were soft and serene. They were also heavy-lidded, Hermione noted with a bit of pride. Sleep slowly but surely came to overtake Narcissa, and Hermione had to supress the smugness she felt for being able to distract the blonde long enough to make it happen. 

“I think...” Narcissa said  groggily , after a few moments of trying to keep her eyes open. “That I would very much like a garden.”

“A garden? You mean at your new place?” Hermione questioned, filing that note for later, absent-mindedly taking a strand of that beautiful golden hair and twirling it between her fingers, marvelling at just how soft it felt. 

Narcissa nodded meekly, not noticing or simply ignoring Hermione’s gesture. “Yes...” she sighed deeply, and Hermione thought she would fall asleep right then and there. “I should like to plant things... I was always fond of Herbology.”

“Me too. But then again, I was fond of all subjects.” Hermione furrowed her brow. “Well, all except Divination.”

Narcissa  _ giggled. “ _ An incredible waste of time, Divination,” she said through a chuckle. “And I should know—I attended all the way up to NEWT level.”

Hermione could not contain her surprise. She shifted in the bed, leaning onto her side so she could level Narcissa with a bewildered look. “You did not!”

Narcissa nodded, eyes closed, lips tugged into a groggy, full-toothed grin. “I did, and I can say with absolute certainty I did not learn a single thing.”

“And yet you took it?? To NEWTs? Why in Merlin’s name would you do that, if it was such a huge waste of time?”

The blonde laughed  again; her chuckles were carefree as she waved Hermione off sleepily. “Oh, why do teenagers do things they do not want to? A girl, obviously.”

Hermione felt all the air in her lungs exit in one startled gasp. “A  _ girl?”  _ Yet another piece of information she filed for later. “You’re telling me Narcissa Malfoy took years of a subject she hated because she had a crush?”

“No,” Narcissa said, brows furrowed, still smiling. “Narcissa Malfoy would  _ never.”  _ She looked  contemplative; her eyes closed tighter for a moment. “But Narcissa Black certainly did.”

“Well, I’d never,” Hermione mused. There was a warm feeling in her chest—a mixture of pride and gratitude that Narcissa had come so far as to trust her in this way. If nothing else, that small moment showed just how much she had improved since the first time Hermione had been in this room. “May I ask who it was that made you endure  _ Divination  _ for years?”

Narcissa’s cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink, and she brought her hands to her eyes as if to hide from the question, but her lips were still stretched into that genial smile. “Oh, Merlin, I... Marlene. Her name was Marlene McKinnon.”

Hermione was thankful the blonde was still hiding her eyes behind her hands, because she was gaping at the shy revelation. She had only heard of Marlene McKinnon from some of the older members of the Order of the Phoenix; it was quite surprising that Narcissa Black would have been interested. But then again... stranger things had happened.

She was able to contain her reaction, melting into a grin. “Marlene McKinnon, eh? I never knew her, but I know Divination, and whatever her appeal, it must have been quite something to make you go through that class for so long.”

Narcissa laughed, holding her ruddy cheeks in her hands and looking at Hermione with bashful eyes. “Ugh. I was a teenager, and completely  _ besotted,”  _ she said the word with a great measure of  embarrassment . “She was just so...  _ cool.” _

Hermione laughed, nudging Narcissa’s shoulder. “Tell me about her?”

The other witch laughed, and her gaze strayed to some far-off point through the curtains and the dwindling light of dusk. Her smile didn’t waver. “She was... fiery. Carefree. She could make anyone laugh—even Bella, on occasion.”

“Wow,” Hermione whistled. “I assume that’s no easy feat.”

Narcissa snorted a little laugh. “Indeed. Marlene was just... so comfortable, at ease with everyone and everything. She was a Quidditch player—a beater for Hufflepuff.”

Hermione smiled inwardly. “ So little Narcissa Black fell for a jock, huh?”

Narcissa’s cheeks went from pink to impossibly red. “I didn’t... No! She was just... mesmerizing. On and off the Quidditch pitch. Bright blue eyes, big hair—blonde, darker than mine, with these... impossible curls. And freckles.” She  sighed, her reminiscence tinged with a touch of sadness. “She was fearless. I remember once she showed up after summer break wearing the  _ slacks  _ from the boys’ uniform... and a leather jacket. It was all  _ quite  _ scandalous.” She laughed a little at the memory. “She broke some kind of record for the fastest detention.”

“She sounds like quite the character,” Hermione said, noting how Narcissa’s lids seemed to grow heavier by the second. For once, it was like she was not afraid of succumbing to slumber, and Hermione was  immeasurably glad for it. She reached out, touching Narcissa’s arm gently. “I think it’s time you sleep.”

A weak nod was Narcissa’s response. Hermione moved to leave, but as the bed shifted, Narcissa seemed to shift with it, inching closer to the space Hermione slowly vacated. Hermione felt the sleeve of her robe being delicately pulled closer. 

“Would you...” Narcissa’s voice was shy, more than before, and her eyes looked somewhere past Hermione. “Would you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”

There was a tremor to the hand holding onto her robes. Hermione gave it a reassuring squeeze, settling back into bed with a smile. 

“Of course.”

* * *

“How was she last night?”

Hermione took a hearty sip of her tea as Andromeda busied herself with some eggs and sausage at the stove. The smell was divine, and Hermione felt... rested, which was likely a first since she and Andromeda had started alternating nights in Narcissa’s room. Staying until Narcissa fell asleep had quite unintentionally turned into staying the whole night—Hermione had woken up to soft rays of sun peeking through the curtains and the tickle of Narcissa’s hair on her face. 

“She was... fine, actually,” Hermione said, pleased. “No nightmares this time.”

Andromeda flipped a few eggs, brows raised. “I was wondering why it was so quiet. So she slept through the night?”

“Like a baby.”

“That’s... very good.”

Hermione wanted to say something—maybe comment on Narcissa’s openness or her sudden  peacefulness the night before, but the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the marble steps interrupted her train of thought. Andromeda heard them too, startled nearly to the point of flipping an egg out of the pan. 

“That wouldn’t be...”

Narcissa emerged through the kitchen doorway, wearing her slippers and a plush robe. Her golden hair was still adorably mussed on one side, and on her cheek were the imprinted lines of her pillow. She still had dark circles under her eyes, but they seemed lighter now, much like her demeanour itself as she stood timidly by the door, looking to her sister and Hermione with a sheepish expression. 

“Good morning,” she murmured, arms crossed as if she were trying to hold onto herself. 

Andromeda gaped, eyes owlishly wide—it looked almost comical, and Hermione smiled widely. 

“Good morning, Narcissa,” she said, welcoming the blonde to sit. She could tell Narcissa did not want to make a big fuss, so she merely motioned to the teapot still steaming on the kitchen table. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”

Narcissa’s lips stretched into a timid smile, and her gaze found Andromeda’s, as if asking for permission. Andromeda, for her part, could only open and close her mouth repeatedly, unable to make a sound at the sight of her sister. 

“Andy,” Hermione finally interrupted when the eggs started smoking. “Breakfast?”

“Of course!” Andromeda yelped. “Cissy, take a seat! Would you like some tea? Or coffee? How about some eggs and sausage? Or toast? Butter, jam? Oh! We have that marmalade you used to like...”

Hermione took in Narcissa and Andromeda and could not help but smile behind her cup of tea. 

* * *

The Manor now looked almost unrecognizable to Hermione’s eyes. Nearly three months since her first visit—discounting the War, it was the longest time she had ever spent on a renovation project; and she felt particularly invested in this one. 

After she and Andromeda had taken care of a few details—namely, Narcissa’s potion stashes—she had brought in a Wizarding crew to clean the place up professionally. They worked everywhere except the second floor of the West Wing, circumventing the recuperating Narcissa as much as possible. Cobwebs were done away with, window panes replaced, wood flooring re-stained and polished, and bit by bit a grandiose, beautiful Manor began to resurface from all the grime and neglect of previous years. 

Hermione was immensely proud of the end result. It was worthy of a place in a tourism board, what with the completely renovated gardens and reconstructed fountain at the front. A picture-perfect— if vastly extravagant— Edwardian estate as far as anyone was concerned. 

Narcissa’s improvement seemed to follow parallel to the house’s; the brighter the manor became, the livelier she seemed to be, coming down more often for breakfast, strolling through the house, even going out to  Diagon Alley with Andromeda on occasion. Not long after that first morning when she made her first appearance in the kitchens, she had taken to walking with Hermione along the many corridors, appreciating the changes made to the Malfoy ancestral home. They took long strolls in the manicured pathways of the now impeccably maintained English gardens, talking about books Muggle and magical alike, about Hogwarts, about whatever Andromeda had cooked that day. 

They even managed, from time to time, to talk about the Manor itself, and Narcissa’s living arrangements. Hermione would never truly admit it, but these days her job as a letting agent seemed to became... secondary. 

She almost forgot that was the purpose of her being there in the first place. One day, Narcissa brought her hurtling back to reality with an oddly-phrased question. 

“Are there many wealthy Muggles in Britain?”

They had been walking down one of the recently gravelled paths along the back gardens—there was a small hedge maze further along which had been their  initial destination. Hermione was so taken aback by the question she nearly sprained her ankle on a loose  pebble .

“Huh?”

Narcissa shrugged elegantly, holding the shawl draped around her shoulders tighter. “Would Muggles be able to afford the Manor?”

Hermione’s mind ran a mile a minute, calculating, thinking of what would have to be done to make an epicentre of Pure-Blooded social standing Muggle-friendly. “You... you want to advertise the house to Muggles as well?”

The blonde looked pensive, fingers rubbing insistently at the soft material of her shawl. “Not exactly. Would... would it be at all possible to advertise  _ only  _ to Muggles?”

Hermione briefly wondered if she had been hit by an errant Befuddlement Jinx—she had been at the Ministry earlier today for some paperwork, and there had been a bit of a commotion at the elevators. Maybe someone had accidentally Confounded her, because Narcissa Malfoy wanted to sell her home to  _ Muggles.  _ Not just Muggle-Borns, or wizards of ‘lower birth’ than the Malfoys themselves.  _ Muggles.  _

_ “ _ You want... You want to sell Malfoy Manor to Muggles?” She couldn’t contain the disbelief in her tone. Narcissa seemed to shrink in place, and Hermione was quick to take the two steps to the blonde and put her hands on her shoulders in a comforting hold. “Can I ask why?”

“I...” there was a shuddering breath, released form Narcissa’s chest and lost to the cold air of November. “No Wizard in their right mind should want this house. Not after... Not after all that has  happened here.”

Hermione blanched. After all of their talks, they had never talked about... the specifics. About the war, about her own kidnapping, about the torture she had to endure in that very house. A thought struck her, hot and painful like a lightning bolt. 

“The bricked room.” Her voice was lost to the wind, but Narcissa heard it; she visibly flinched, her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s... it’s where...”

Narcissa nodded weakly. “The parlour where Bellatrix tortured you. I had it bricked off the moment Lucius was sentenced.”

Hermione felt her lungs constrict, devoid of air, gasping for a breath to calm her suddenly racing heartbeat. The possibility of what lie beyond the bricked wall—she had considered it, of course, but to hear Narcissa confirming it felt entirely different. Narcissa looked at her with worry and  immeasurable sadness in her gaze, and Hermione felt the scar on her arm throb ever so slightly. 

“Well,” she breathed, feeling Narcissa tremble under her touch. Part of her wanted to ask more about the bricked room, the other part wanted to steamroll right past that painful conversation. She chose the latter. “I’m sure we could advertise to Muggles. To answer your question, yes, there are several wealthy Muggles in Britain and I’m sure we’ll see a lot of interest, but we can also expand our reach, y’know, I think there are plenty of rich Americans who would love a house in the English countryside, and surely we could totally find someone who...”

The panicked, disjointed rambling was cut off when Narcissa suddenly wound her arms around Hermione’s neck, knocking the wind out of her sails with the embrace. Hermione gasped, and then the very air she breathed was full of Narcissa, saturated with the soft scent of her perfume, and her space was filled with the other witch’s warmth. Hermione felt the moisture of tears on her skin as Narcissa hid her face in the crook of her neck, and all she could do was reciprocate by wrapping her arms around the woman’s waist. 

Her heartbeat thundered so loudly in her ears she scarcely heard Narcissa’s whisper. 

“Thank you.”


End file.
